Whiskey and Cannibalism - December 31, 2006

My friend Micah (from the Jamaican Clam Bake Debacle) and I decided that we were going to fly from New Hampshire to Philadelphia to attend a charity event. Some dork named Tucker Max puts them together so we can send our troops overseas cool stuff like porn and playing cards. There is nothing like a bitter, Misery-esque New England winter to instill a good case of cabin fever in a couple of young guys. We needed to escape, if only for the weekend.

As soon we got off the plane, my sister and her buddies took us to Fado, a chain Irish pub. Once seated, we managed to run up a $500 tab on Jameson 12 Year before last call, which was a bargain because we were $1,000 worth of drunk. I was standing on my table, gyrating my hips and screaming Journey lyrics at people in line for the bathroom and Micah was taking shots with a gaggle of Lane Bryant models sitting next to us. Whiskey is bad.

We eventually made our way back to my sister's friend's apartment for more booze and some bong action. My sister's hot friend was asking me where Micah was because she wanted to hook up with him. I went downstairs to give him the good news, and found him sleeping face first on the dining room table, snoring and drooling. When I went back upstairs, my sister was curled up around the toilet like a cat, emptying her guts. Both of my sister's friends were sleeping on top of eachother, one of them still holding the bong in their hands. I slapped Micah awake, grabbed my sister and directed everyone out so we could sleep comfortably.

The first thing that I noticed when we walked into my sister's apartment was her little Buddhist altar in the living room. It had a bunch of weird Asian crap all over it, and in the center was a cabinet that held some kind of Chinese calligraphy hanging. I assumed that it was some kind of silly chanting sheet music. I saw a little black lacquered box on the table, and I asked my sister what it was while she was brushing her teeth in the bathroom. "Oh, that's just dad's ashes. They came in the mail the other day." This was the first time I had seen them since he died a few months before.

I lifted the box up and all that was there was this little brown burlap (I think it was burlap anyway) baggie. I was kind of disappointed that they didn't put the ashes in an urn or anything; I didn't even know that a burlap sack was something you were supposed to put human remains in. Different strokes for destitute folks, I guess.

I picked up the baggie to examine it further. It was pretty light. I gave it a little squeeze and it kind of felt and sounded like the ashes after a fresh wood fire. My friend told me that I was crazy for even touching it. Me being me, I feigned playing hacky sack with it to freak him out. He laughed, I laughed, and then I raised the bag to my face and pretended to wail it off of my forehead like a soccer ball to further make Micah uncomfortable. The bag accidentally tapped my hairline, and a little, tiny, almost unnoticeable sprinkling of dust sifted out of the bottom of the bag and into my mouth.

Oh my God. I just ate dad.

My eyes welled up. My first instinct was to barf. No, actually, my first instinct was to cry. What the fuck was wrong with me? Why did I have to do that? Why did I always mask my emotions with fucking humor? Was I trying to prove something to myself and everyone around me by feigning immunity to the pain of my dad's death? My drunken mind tried to wrap itself around all of those questions as the ashes mingled with my saliva, creating a paste on my tongue.

I quietly put the baggie down and slid the black box back over it like nothing happened. Micah didn't even notice; he had flipped over facing the couch to pass out right as it happened. I couldn't say anything. I mean, how do you tell someone that you just ate a piece of a dead person? How would I break it to my sister? She was wasted. I could just picture her bursting into tears and raining girly punches on my head and shoulders for desecrating her shrine by committing cannibalism before rifling Micah and I out of her place in the middle of the night, shamefully shitfaced and without any resources to rectify the situation.

I slowly walked into the bathroom, shut the door behind me and puked as quietly as one possibly can after a night of heavy drinking. I vigorously washed my mouth with hydrogen peroxide, scoured my teeth with baking soda and drank a liter of Smartwater before lying down on the couch with drunken, guilty tears in my eyes long after everyone fell asleep.

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Comments

Well, I wish I could say that the same thing happened to me to make you feel better. All and all I have heard that some people try to snort dead people dust, or I read that in some dumb book. The key thing is that you felt bad about it. You are not a complete asshole, so that counts for something. I think you are an asshole, and would not touch you with a ten foot pole, nevertheless you have heart, and that is why I like you.

Posted by: at December 31, 2006 06:20 PM

Close enough...

Posted by: maw at January 1, 2007 12:03 AM

In some cultures in South America the eat all the ashes of their deceased family members. I believe they make a soup.

Posted by: Laura at January 1, 2007 10:10 AM

In some cultures, men are allowed to beat stupid whores like you across the face with a stick - no more than a finger's width - for idiotic attempts at alleviating someone else's misery.

And we can stuff you into burqas to save society the horror of your double chins and cellulite-laden thunder thighs.

Posted by: HalfNelson at January 1, 2007 07:11 PM

Awww, people like HalfNelson still exist? Damn it.

Loving your stories Mr. Kung, keep them coming. Pissed myself at the tard halloween story/pictures, I'm gunna have to copy you or think of something even more offensive next year.

(Have thought about it, and copying seems safest, I don't think many people even want to know how to react to a rape-victim costume.)